Bullet holes
by Ky03elk
Summary: The scar that marks her chest is a burden she's unwilling to share. Season Eight speculation (No spoilers).


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Bullet holes

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By Ky03elk and Jam821

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The scar that marks her chest is a burden she's unwilling to share.

Season Eight speculation (No spoilers)

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The shadow from the single overhead light isn't enough to see her face, the emerald in her eyes, the sharp arc of her cheekbones. He doesn't need it though.

His eyes slip closed and she's there before him, the sun setting behind her as she angles her head, just a fraction, body flush against his as they dance, the thin sound of their song straining through the material of his tailored pocket.

Stop.

Her black, slick, lithe form cuts through the night as he stares ahead once more, focusing on the task at hand and not on what was. Them. Marriage. Happiness.

This is their reality now, but he's not lying down without a fight, sitting at home twiddling his thumbs. He's done that before. Waited. It got him, _them_ , nowhere.

The globe flickers from the corner of the street, matches the pace of his heart, until it goes out, dropping the rundown warehouse area into complete black. But then it finds some strength, bathes the concrete below in light once more, and he sighs, releasing the breath he'd held while watching the lamp fight to stay lit, as if it were a portent of what was about to happen.

There's light, hope, and he shifts to spy on his wife, the vacant space where she'd last been a kick to the ego. He's been getting better at staying on her trail on the nights when she leaves the precinct past the stroke of midnight. Each time he follows her path through the New York alleyways, he lasts a little longer before she loses herself, loses him, to the nothingness.

He's not giving up just yet, and, slithering from behind the crates stacked haphazardly against a chipped brick wall, he tiptoes in the direction where she'd just been, her body so much more graceful for its stealth; skin tight leather pants hugging her muscular thighs. Difficult to peel down, but the reward had always been so sweet.

He shakes his head, the image dropping to litter the street amid broken glass and broken dreams.

Movement catches the sliver of a shadow, a door closes where stillness should be, and he scans the derelict buildings, his body shifting as he dodges an upturned cardboard box. There. He hasn't lost sight of her.

In the sunshine of tomorrow, when he downs his third coffee, black and bitter because anything else makes tears prick at the corner of his eyes, his hands curling as he fights the urge to haul the porcelain at the nearest wall, he'll sit, again, and curse this need, this habit that he can't give up.

Her.

Regardless of what she does, to him, to them, he's like a dog with a bone - he huffs into the crisp three am sky at the cliché - and he can't not chase, can't not follow…

He can't _not_ love her.

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The scrape behind her has her against the wall, gun in her palm, her eyes searching the black, before she can begin to rationalize the noise. Her thighs tremble, sweat slicking her palm as she repositions the Glock, its numbers filed, untraceable.

Just in case.

It's a rat though, maybe a half starved cat looking for something that isn't there, prowling on the off chance that it might tonight discover something, anything, to make its constant hunt worthwhile.

Maybe, just maybe, she's projecting, and there's nothing there at all.

This is another wasted night, more lost hours, more minutes spent everywhere except where she desperately wants to be.

Home.

With him.

She drops her arms, hands still tight around the gun, finger resting but ready, as she lists her head back into the barren wall behind her. It swallows her for a second, the overwhelming desire to cry, to sob into the darkness for the life she's working towards, for the life she's left. She's doing all she can, chasing every lead she can find, every broken, useless piece of something, on the slim gamble that it will be the breakthrough she needs.

Anything that will give her the ladder to climb out of this godforsaken hole she's once again fallen into.

It's a crunch, closer and to her left, and she swings her arms up, muzzle pointed at the only entrance.

Fuck.

What the _fuck_ is she thinking?

Her heart stops - it's been dead for two weeks, three days and six hours, not that she's counting - her finger tightening on the trigger, the silhouette of a male, large, broad, edging around the doorway.

Her heart starts. It's quiet but it's there.

" _Castle?"_

His head turns, the light threading through the cracked window to her right highlighting the slope of his nose, and the gun clatters to her feet, her fingernails digging into her palms.

Shit.

"What are you doing here?" The hiss to her question must cut harder than she'd intended, because his body jerks back, setting a wave of emotion rolling through the gap between them. It slams into her chest, and the soft thud that was her heart beating once more, stills.

"Me? Me!" Fury snaps each syllable, the crack fierce and it slashes her skin open. "I've been following you. Trying to keep _you_ safe. Trying to work out what in the world you're thinking, Kate?"

"I know." She was sure that she'd lost him back on the corner of Second and Green. "I mean here? You shouldn't be here. If they-"

She sucks in the stale air, dust coating her throat as she closes her jaw on the rest of her sentence. She's said too much. He has to go before she says something that gets him killed.

 _I miss you._

 _I love you._

"You have to go. Now. Castle, please."

He takes a step forward instead of backward, the glow from outside catching the planes of his face, the lines ridged, raw, deep. So much more broken than she'd ever wanted.

"No. I don't understand. I don't need to understand." It's a lie, his silent plea clearer than the harsh whisper he's directing at her. "But don't shut me out. Don't expect me not to follow, to stop watching your back."

He's been doing it for far too many years. She doesn't have to hear that either.

She thrashes her head, loose curls slipping from the hastily thrown together bun. He can't. Not this time.

"You have to go. I can't get you killed. Don't you see that?" She leans forward, her right foot extending before she can stop herself. It's a mistake, the scent of him, the one that clings to the shirts that she steals, the one that lingers on her skin even after he rids them from her shoulders, curls in the darkness, slides across her senses.

"I'm not going to get killed."

He will. Doesn't he see?

"You throw yourself in front of bullets, Rick. And I can't- you can't stop yourself." She lifts her right hand, her fingers shaking, but- no. This is for him. For them. "I have to stop this."

His jaw drops, the light from the street lamp splintering his face as he lunges forward. Her palms catch him, slamming into his chest, wide, hard, solid against her flesh. Every cell screams with the agony, the pain of touching him, holding him, but-

No.

"I can't have your blood on my hands, Rick. I'm selfish. And it hurts." Fuck, it carves through her soul every second that they're apart. "I know you must hate me. But you jump in front of bullets for me, and I can't- Don't make me live with you gone."

Not again.

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"Tell me." He ghosts the tip of his nose across her cheek, just a fraction. He just needs a taste to live for another day. "Let me in so we can do this together."

There's something big lurking in the shadows. He's not stupid. The footwork she's been doing is a mirror of what they'd done as they'd hunted for a clue, for anything, that would capture Bracken.

Her lips brush his - maybe he's imagining them, it wouldn't be the first - and then she's gone, a mark against the far wall, a face hidden from his sight.

"No. It's big. Bigger than- Let me do this. With you safe. I can't have your blood on my hands. I'm sorry."

His muscles contract, arms rising, her words cutting too close to a truth long ago but never forgotten, and he grasps for the collar of her shirt, tugs fiercely.

"Don't you stand before me, Kate Beckett. Don't you dare stand before me as my wife, and talk about blood on your hands." He pushes his palm between her breasts, the thump from within clashing with the memory of the moment it stopped.

"I've had your blood pool between my fingers, or did you forget? _Again?_ I know what it is to watch the life drain out of you, to wonder if you'll ever come back to me."

Tears come fast, dashing his cheeks, blurring his vision. He blinks, but it blurs. It keeps blurring.

"I love you. Do you get that? I love you, and you left me. For _this_."

Her mouth slams into his, salt skimming across the surface of his lips. His. Hers. And he opens, falling beneath the tidal wave that is her, letting her in.

"No, Rick. No." The mumble of her words vibrates within the hollow of his soul. "I love you. It's messed up, but I do."

He thrusts himself forward, silences her plea. Not now, hush, now he just needs this.

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Her back slams into the nearest wall, the exposed brick scraping against her head as he crowds closer, but she barely feels it, can't feel anything except for the heavy thump of blood through her veins, the searing heat of his hands under her shirt.

He ghosts over the mostly healed graze on her abdomen, the wound that pushed her back down the rabbit hole, and they both freeze, panting with the effects of their respective pain and their desperate need for each other. His eyes are black when he looks at her, deliberately covering the scar with his palm and letting the touch speak for him.

 _Your pain is mine._

 _You're mine._

And she is. She always will be, but she can't do this, chase this, if she's also worrying about him. She can't lose herself to it if he's there expecting her to come back every night. And she'll never exorcise this demon if she can't figure out who's responsible.

But she's selfish too. It's been too long since she's touched him, been touched by him, and she can't deny it, can't shut it down when he's this close.

She places her palm over his, squeezing to acknowledge it and then redirecting him to where she needs him most. Down over her jeans, she forces his fingers to cup her, sobbing at the pressure she's been craving.

"Fuck, Kate," he groans.

His forehead drops to the curve of her neck, digging his nose into the skin as he scrapes his teeth over her collarbone, soothing it with the touch of his tongue. It's too much and not enough, and she grinds down against his hand, chanting his name like a prayer.

"God, I've missed you, Castle. I'm sor-"

He cuts her off with a kiss, bruising and punishing with the force of it, and pushes closer, forcing her to slide up the wall while both legs wrap around his hips. She's wet and ready for him - it never did take more than a look to have her on edge - and she manoeuvres her hands between them, undoing each button on his shirt in a desperate attempt to get at skin.

"Don't be sorry. I don't want sorry."

She groans when he rips her shirt off, latching onto the spot below her ear that turns her to putty. He knows just how to touch her, to make her agree to anything, but she won't - oh fuck - won't let him change her mind.

His life is worth every sacrifice.

"Castle, I need you."

When he steps back, his hands and mouth leaving her skin, she whimpers, barely getting her legs under control before she collapses. But he doesn't go far, just enough to undo his belt, kicking his shoes to the side and pushing his pants to the floor.

She takes her time perusing his naked form, head to toe and back again. It's the same, of course, her ruggedly handsome bear of a husband, and she sighs, biting her lip as the war continues to rage inside her heart. She wants him close, needs him day in and day out, but she wants and desperately needs him alive as well. For herself, for his family.

He has to stay alive, and she is poison. Staying with her is a death sentence.

"You need me, Kate."

It's not a question, never has been, but the way he says it, the way he reaches for her, possessive and in control, removing her own pants with an ease that comes from comfort and familiarity, has her wondering if maybe he's right.

He drags his fingers through the wetness between her thighs, lifting his hand to show her the damning evidence before he licks the digits clean, a subtle groan escaping when his tongue first makes contact.

"See how much you need me."

There's no hesitance after that, no pause or question in his actions or hers. He reaches for her thighs, spreading them and driving her back up the wall until he has her bare and open, her body weeping for him. He slides in slowly, inch by precious inch, and she shivers at the steady, perfect intrusion, finding his lips with hers to stop herself from saying something she shouldn't.

"We work better as a team."

The words echo in her ear, a truth she tries to ignore while he stokes the fire one slick glide at a time. It's quick after so long without him, tears burning behind her eyes as the waves of orgasm begin to lap at her shores.

Always better as a team.

"Always, Kate."

She cries out with surrender, giving in to her body and her heart even if it's only for a moment. She hands it all back to him. Her husband, her lover, her soul mate.

He's everything.

And she won't lose him to this.

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She toys with the last button on his shirt now they're both dressed again, delays the inevitable, as if another second will make it hurt less.

It won't.

"You're going. Aren't you?"

There's no question in his tone, the torture of the truth a statement. She's going.

"When you were- When I thought you had died…" She lists forward, searching the ground for words that aren't there. "I want a future, with you. I want-" So much, so much that is just out of grasp. "There's something going on, and if they find out, if they think for a second that you're involved in this with me-"

She raises her chin, her stare locking with his.

"I couldn't survive if you wore the bullet hole, Castle."

His eyes don't shift, his body turning to ice before her, and it inches across the floor, twisting around her boots, clawing at her calves.

"But you expect me to live with yours?"

Yes.

She hesitates forward, catching herself at the last second, and, stepping away, she heads to the exit. She nearly makes it.

"I love you, Kate."

Her fingers cling to the doorframe, her forehead striking the wood as the last kiss they'd shared rushes past her lips and into the soon to be deserted warehouse.

"Always, Castle."

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The clock from a distant bell chimes with midnight, the rain that's been falling since evening masking the sound. Another night. Another hour of lost time. Another minute where she searches for something she doesn't even know exists.

Her head twists, a shadow shifting to her left where no shadow should be, and she slows her steps. The thump of her heart nudges inside her chest, quiet but there. She should keep going, jump the train tracks that lie ahead.

But there, to her right, lies the old mill, abandoned long ago, and she slows her stride, turning as the movement stalks a little closer, follows her inside.

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I wrote my scenes at two am when the images just wouldn't shut up, and it was a nasty crash off the wagon I have had to climb aboard. I made the hard choice to stop writing and reading fic cold turkey, thinking that I could make the voices quiet until all my assignments had been completed… but then Castle started in all its angsty delight. I have one and a half assignments left of my course and of my self-imposed seclusion… unless I fall… again.

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To Jamie who wrote the fourth scene (the heat and soul of this fic), thank you for taking my plea for sex and going above and beyond into glorious perfection.

To Jo for doing a beta for us (and for E who is sleeping), thank you for finding time when it's so full with the adorable.

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Thank you for reading xoxo


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